It’s almost halfway through the year, and I have not posted yet. I like to reserve the first post of the year for a moment of reflection, gratitude, and optimism. But since my mother passed away in October, it has been difficult for me to find optimism. I think maybe the cloud is lifting a bit, and I am taking this brief moment of light to record my year’s opening thoughts, however late.
I recall a time in the early 90s when I had just finished my 2nd and 3rd degree simultaneously (B.Ed. and M.Sc.) and was contemplating starting a PhD in a year’s time. I needed money, so I took a job for a year. That job was as a lowly bilingual receptionist at the Ontario Training and Adjustment Board (OTAB), an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Education. Yes, back then, my French was good enough for me to function fluidly in a bilingual environment. That would terrify me today, even though I still work in a supposedly bilingual job.
It became clear early on that I was being wasted as a receptionist, so the unit’s Director, Dr Cliff Jutlah, created a research job for me instead. Looking back, I was so fortunate in that position. All of the “grown-ups” in that office looked after me, even though I was a grown man in his early 20s. Several of them tried to mentor me, Dr Jutlah included. The new receptionist, an older gentleman named John Donald, became a close friend, and we remained in touch after I left to do my PhD. More about him later.
But there was a particular economist on the team, Ashraf Hussain (whose surname I might have misspelled) who really took to guiding me, not just professionally but personally. How lucky am I, that so many interesting and smart people have sought to be guiding figures in my life? Ashraf taught me many things about history, economics, politics, and identity. He had been a freedom fighter in the Bangladeshi war of independence against Pakistan, and the stories of his exploits entertain me to this day, including his deep cogitations on the ethics of his actions. I even took up one of his habits, which is to check for all the exits as soon as I enter any new place… something he learned when avoiding ambushes and such.
I could go on. But the one thing I want to mention is that one day Ashraf’s father died. And he told me something I will never forget. He said, one day you will meet a woman who says she loves you. And you will say you love her. And maybe you will both mean it. But there is no truer love than the love of a parent for their child. No one will ever love you as much as your mother and father do.
Now that I am an orphan, these words echo though my body and cause me to tremble. And I am evermore grateful that I am a parent. I might not have the love of my parents anymore. But I have the equivalent love for my child. I will make sure that he knows it. And it will sustain both of us.
I lost touch with Ashraf. Wherever he is, I hope that he and Cliff Jutlah are well. Only now in my senior years do I realize how grateful I should be to those two men, for taking a moment of unrewarded mentorship.
And John Donald, the new receptionist? He was such an interesting character. He would work for some months, earn enough money to fly to Turkey for a few months, then come back to Toronto, work again, fly to Turkey, rinse and repeat. He told me many tales of his supernatural life, none of which I will bore you with right now. But one thing I did do for him was to install a copy of Civilization III on his work computer, so that he would not be bored between calls.
Months after I left that office, I got a call from John Donald’s mother. John had died. He had had terminal cancer the whole time and had not told me. I decided to honour him by playing a game of Civilization III. I fired up my computer, loaded the game, then it glitched. Suddenly, it self-loaded a saved game I did not know that I had. It was an older session of a previous instance of Civilization III, and was titled, “John Donald, Prince of the Christians.”
It was a magical moment of near-paranormal closure for my dead friend.
I have had no such moment with my dead parents. I struggle everyday to overcome the cloud that hangs over me. But the good days are now outnumbering the bad days. My son gives me much optimism, though I worry for the future of his world. And weird cultural things fill me with optimism, like my current favourite bands, Angine de Poitrine and Wet Leg: signs that fun and creativity still linger in this flaccid, self-referential, algorithmic, uncreative world.
And there you have it, my first post of 2026. We got through it.
